


Downtime

by citizenjess (givehimonemore)



Category: Queer as Folk (US) RPF
Genre: Co-workers, Crack, M/M, POV Original Female Character, Summer Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 07:24:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givehimonemore/pseuds/citizenjess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'How Evil!Randy Spent His Summer Vacation'; sequel to 'Tough Love'. Randy is remiss when Gale shows up on his doorstep in June.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Downtime

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Tough Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/732961) by [citizenjess (givehimonemore)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/givehimonemore/pseuds/citizenjess). 



> Written circa-2004: "Once upon a time, somebody begged me to write a story about Evil!Randy, demented fictional counterpart of Randy Harrison, and his equally fictional and uber-obtuse secret lover, Gale. And lo, it was funny, and I, wanting to continue spreading the love of Evil!Randy, decided to bestow upon my faithful readers a sequel. 
> 
> That said, this takes place during the summer of 2004, so while not that much of a "future 'fic", it is vaguely futuristic nonetheless. Also, standard disclaimers apply: I do not know Randy or Gale (or the rest of the cast of QaF, for that matter); I realize that RPS is merely the product of fans' overactive imaginations (for the most part, anyways); "Queer as Folk" is Cowlip's baby; trees are pretty."

June. 

Randy always relished the time he spent away from Toronto during the summer months; it was a relief to get away from the people he'd been fake (and not-so-fake) sleeping with for an entire filming season, if only for a while. Before "Queer as Folk", Randy Harrison spent his summers avidly auditioning for plays, seeing movies, catching up with friends and getting in some recreational reading. Now, by the time June rolled around, people were lucky if they heard from him once every two weeks. 

"Hermit" was an understatement; Randy paid somebody to bring him groceries once a week, ordered his movies off of PayPer View, and waited to do his laundry in the dead of night so the only person he had any chance of running into was the male prostitute who lived down the hall who occasionally used his apartment complex's laundry room facilities to bugger a trick or two. Even his voice mail message did not exude the confident cheerfulness that Randy's personality once did; in fact, he had taken special pains to disguise his voice so that only people who really knew him well realized that they'd gotten the right extension.

"Randy, honey," his mother had queried in that pleasantly concerned and oh-so-Southern way that she always did; "is there a reason your answering machine message says, 'I am the Prince of Darkness, bow before me and ye shall not despair ... well, too much, anyways' in a raspy voice?" He had tried to explain the reference, citing the title as being very Ozzy Osborne, but she still persisted in calling him "muffin" and "shortcake" and "pun'kin". Only the woman who had painstakingly borne him from her own loins had the privilege of nicknaming him after confectionary treats. 

Well, only her and Gale. Randy always despised the end-of-season wrap parties, not just because everyone was overly sentimental and did awkward things like hug him at random moments, but mostly since his shaggy-haired fuck toy was inordinately weepy, knowing he and Randy were about to get their last licks in before heading off in separate directions for a few months. Gale always implored Randy for his contact information, but Randy had always found a way to elude giving it to him. It wasn't that he didn't like Gale (well, okay, it kind of was); it was that his doctor had all-but-promised that he'd have a heart attack before he reached thirty if he *didn't* take a little time off and get away from stressors that might be contributing to blood pressure-raising urges to kill. And (amongst other things), it didn't take a rocket scientist to realize that Gale was at the very top of that list. 

This year, though, Gale, in a rare moment of dominance, had suckered Randy into coughing up his New York address. Rather, in an unfortunate tickle fight, Gale's nearly twelve-inch height advantage had had Randy pinned to the mattress and bleating angrily like a constipated farm animal, and subsequently sequestered it without mercy. He'd even been unable to barter it back by giving Gale really good head - the other man had obviously been very determined. Nonetheless, Randy had made Gale promise not to give it out or use it, and even though he'd been reluctantly blown into tacking on, "except in emergencies", he was pretty confident that Gale would leave him alone. "Have a nice summer, schnookums," the taller man had whispered, eyes shining with unshed tears. 

"Later, assfuck," Randy had replied, getting into his car and driving off set. True to his word, and save a couple of events where both men were forced to make public appearances and pretend to like each other enough to pose for pictures, Gale had left Randy alone. In fact, he hadn’t even called, not once; it was a far cry from the 2 AM phone sex-a-thons that had been quantifiable when they both lived in Toronto (not to mention, all the bathroom break blow-jobs and desecrating pretty much every available surface in their respective trailers when they were on set), and a miniscule part of Randy almost missed occasionally hearing Gale’s stupid, pretty voice and seeing his stupid, pretty face. Almost. 

So he still managed to be plenty incensed when Gale showed up on his doorstep one Friday evening, a worn duffel bag in hand and his usual off-season scruff covering most of the lower half of his face. He looked good, but that was probably only because Gale survived eight months on cotton balls soaked in orange juice (he’d heard an anorexic model on a radio station program [which meant that he wasn't really sure if she was anorexic or not] say that the cotton swelled up once you digested it and made you feel fuller) when they were filming the show. So even though he’d probably spent the last four weeks getting stoned and having a gratuitous case of the munchies (and Randy was willing to bet he’d had, given the bloodshot eyes and even-dopier-than-usual expression on Gale’s face), the weight gain had actually been an improvement.

“What the fuck,” Randy sputtered once he’d relocated his jaw, “are you doing here?” 

“Hey, baby,” Gale slurred shyly, half-closed eyes lighting up with as much excitement as his obviously-still-stoned demeanor could muster. Randy wondered when he’d bathed last; “can I come in?”

“Why are you here?” Randy asked again. “I told you, no phone calls, no e-mail - although you probably wouldn’t know how to use a computer if your life depended on it, so no worries there - and certainly no out-of-the-blue visits. Why aren’t you getting toked-up at the other end of the country?”

“I was,” Gale simpered, “but I don’t have an apartment anymore. It's an emergency,” he enunciated, baring slightly-yellowed teeth. 

Randy crossed his arms over his chest, still blocking the entrance. “And why would that be?” he asked; had Gale been sober, he would have noted the dangerously low tones of Randy’s voice and been afraid. As it was, he just giggled stupidly. 

“I decided to light a bunch of candles and incense and stuff because it smelled really good,” Gale reminisced, eyes glazing over. “And then I ate two super-size bags of potato chips and fell asleep watching the Care Bears movie. And when I woke up . . .” Gale sniffled and wiped his nose on the sleeve of a plaid pullover jacket that had obviously seen better days - “my apartment was on fire and I was hooked up to an oxygen tank. It was kind of cool,” he grinned.

“It is *not* kind of cool,” Randy snapped; he was no stranger to recreational drug use by any means, but when there were consequences like Gale Harold showing up on his doorstep, something had to be done. “Why can’t you go stay with Bobby or Peter or even Hal?” he continued. “They live a lot closer than New York.”

“Been there,” Gale said, ticking the names off on nicotine-stained fingers. “Bobby kicked me out after I accidentally flooded his condo with bubble bath and left something on the stove for too long; Peter got mad when I brought a chick back to his place and we ended up passed out on the sofa naked and surrounded by straight porn; and Hal said he was embarrassed to bring his groupies by after band practice because I stunk. I have nowhere else to go, Randy!” Gale wailed, looking very much like he was about to cry. And while Randy enjoyed provoking tears, having them caused by something as lame as housing situations, or lack thereof, was something he tried to avoid. He didn’t even want to *know* how Gale had *made* it across the country. ‘Probably let somebody blow him in exchange for a ride; or maybe he rode in with a shipment of cows or something - that would explain the smell.’ 

“Fuck me,” Randy muttered to himself, ignoring (for the moment, anyways) Gale’s eager acclimation to the suggestion. He stepped aside to let the other man pass, wrinkling his nose as he got a whiff of Gale’s body odor. “Not until you take a fucking shower,” he retracted. “And you’re not just going to sit around all summer getting stoned, either,” he continued, ignoring the soft pout of the other man’s lips. “You’re going to get a job, or a hobby, or *something* else in the meantime, and when you’re not doing that, I want you cooking or cleaning.” Randy knew that Gale was actually quite adept at making food; not that he would ever compliment him on it, but he was impressed, nonetheless.

“Got it,” Gale agreed, nodding his shaggy head in accord; Randy noticed a few bits of dirt that fell onto his rug with the movement, and flinched. “It’ll be like old times,” the older man continued happily. “You, me, sharing dinner together and fucking whenever and wherever we feel like it.” His enthusiasm wasn’t quite contagious, but the thought of having a regular fuck-buddy again *did* manage to bring a small goldfish cracker smile to Randy’s lips. That is, until Gale pulled him near and pressed a messy kiss to Randy’s cheek with a loud ‘smack’ sound. “Oh, Randy, dumpling, I love you!” Gale exclaimed, rank breath invading the other man’s nostrils.

The smile quickly disappeared.

 

July.

True to his word, Gale dutifully took up cooking and cleaning responsibilities for (his and) Randy's (shared) living space. He cleaned himself up, stopped stockpiling illicit substances the way he had back in California, and became an avid fan of the mid-afternoon court shows on television. He made gourmet dishes every night for dinner, fixed Randy a sandwich whenever he asked, folded laundry, washed Randy's beaten-up Volkswagen bug and even ran to the video store at least a couple of times a week (the chick behind the counter really liked him, he could tell, and when her manager wasn't there, she usually gave him discounts on movies [and gratuitous hand-jobs in the “back room”]). It was actually kind of an ideal situation.

Ideal, and perfectly fucking domestic; they were acting like some married heterosexual couple, and realizing this, Randy wanted to puke. Gale was no better than a housewife, save for the fact that he put out whenever Randy but coughed, offering up his ass or whatever orifice happened to be coveted at the time -- Randy had never been with a woman, but he'd heard horror stories about them denying their mates sexual gratification because of something called a "period". And while Gale was most certainly his bitch, he was pretty sure that the only bleeding he did was when Randy gave him a bloody nose. 

And really, he was close to doing it, once he realized how efficient and cozy Gale had made his living space; disgruntled Goth boys were not supposed to have lavender-scented candles on the back of their toilet seats, nor did the 'starving artist' stereotype allow for the bit of a spare tire he'd worked up since he'd started eating Gale's concoctions every night. He suspected that keeping all of this anger bottled up inside was one of those "heart attack triggers" his doctor had warned him about, and decided that, somehow, he had to break the news to his live-in housewife. 

"How's dinner tonight, darling-dearheart?" Gale cooed, making kissy faces across the table at him. Randy stared sullenly at the two tall, white, lit candles in stainless steel holders (one of Gale's impromptu purchases), willing himself not to snap. One of the candles, seemingly fearful of his gaze, snuffed itself out. 

"It's fine," Randy said through gritted teeth. He speared an asparagus leaf with his fork and munched it thoroughly, filling his mouth to give himself an excuse not to speak. Taking a swig of white wine (Gale had been taking cues from Randy's "Queer as Folk" counterpart; in fact, it was a wonder that he hadn't attempted to set up dinner camp on the floor), he finally continued, "that's exactly it, though, Gale. Everything's 'fine'; it's almost ... perfect. Do you realize how insipid that is?" he demanded.

Gale just smiled pleasantly. "It's been wonderful," he gushed. "It's the first time since we've met that I haven't whittled away the summer pining for you." Gale's eyes watered as he gazed at Randy adoringly from across the table. "I've never been happier." 

"Gale, I think I need to get away for a while," Randy blurted out, unable to trust his stomach not to turn itself inside out anymore. 

Gale's face fell considerably at the insinuation. "What do you mean, sugar-dumpling?" he whispered, setting his fork down and clasping his hands together in front of his person. "Do you want a vacation?" he continued, expression brightening again at the prospect. His hands clapped in delight. "Oh, Randy, we could go to Rome, or maybe even Paris, see the Eiffel Tower ..."

"I need to get away from *you*," Randy finally screeched, slamming his hands down on the table for emphasis. He watched Gale's lower lip start to tremble and scoffed, "stop sniveliI diI didn't say you had to leave; I'm just going nuts without any motivation or direction or responsibilities." He poked at his increasingly pudgy tummy with a sigh and added, "I'm going soft."

"You still felt pretty hard when you pounded into me this morning," Gale appraised. He looked Randy up and down, apparently in deep thought. "Maybe," he said at last, "you could get a small job; just something to tide you over until we start shooting again." 

Randy tried to think of something caustic to say in response, but could come up with nothing. "That's ... not a bad idea," he admitted. Gale beamed as he allowed the smallest of smiles to grace his features. "I guess you *are* good for something besides sex, after all." 

So Randy went out and searched for a job, eventually landing the lead role in a local production of "Sweeney Todd". The director had not been sure Randy's sweet, young face could pull off the demented cunning of a spurned lover who helped a local shop owner bake people into meat pies, but Randy assured him that he could play demented just as well as the good-naturedness of his more revered television role. "I killed one of my co-stars once," he'd explained brightly during the audition. "It will be very easy to make this look realistic." 

The rehearsals lasted from early afternoon on through the evenings, and Randy fell easily into a pattern of working all day and then coming home, eating Gale's dinner, watching Gale's favourite WB sitcoms (an allowance he begrudgingly made because all good housewives were addicted to some form of crappy television or another), and then fucking Gale's brains out. Randy could still complain about his life being extremely hum-drum, but at least now he wasn't sitting around at home gng fng fat. Also, like most jobs of yesteryear, acting provided Randy with a nice stress reliever -- even if his character was a darkly depressed sociopath, his problems were far enough removed from Randy's immediate life that neither he nor his blood pressure were greatly affected. 

When opening night rolled around at the tail end of the month, Gale insisted on going to root Randy on. "You really don't have to," Randy lamented, growing increasingly agitated by the second at the thought of Gale smiling adoringly at him from the audience. But like with certain things, his taller lover was persistent in being able to show Randy that he supported him, even in his non-QaF endeavors, and even went so far as to invite the whole Toronto posse along. It was also his chance to apologize to Bobby and Hal and Peter for being so disrespectful while he was staying with them, and so the fancy invitations he picked up from the drug store on an impromptu trip to fetch Randy a half-pint of his favourite ice cream really served a dual purpose. 

And despite their initial shock over Gale actually being able to cohesively read, write and send out said invitations, the "Queer as Folk" gang dutifully made their way to New York for Randy's debut as the Demon Barber of Fleet Street. "This is going to be so much fun!" Thea gushed, arm woven together with Michelle's. Most people assumed they were a couple both on and off-set, and after the first couple of years of playing Melanie and Lindsey, the girls had stopped bothering to set the record straight, so to speak.

Once the group was more or less seated in the theatre (they'd made a point to be as close to the front of the line as possible so they could get prime spots for making embarrassing faces at the actors), Hal and Harris gibbered excitedly about their bands, a topic long exhausted when anybody else was in the vicinity; Peter and Bobby compared notes on LA hot-spots, hot guys, and just about anything else applicable to the word "hot"; Scott, who had come both solo and without an obvious cast member to pair himself off with, chatted politely with Gale. "So, uh, how are you and Randy getting along?”

“Randy is wonderful,” Gale gushed, clasping his hands to his chest sincerely. “I’m so proud of him, too; he was in a rut and he got himself out of it. That’s not always an easy thing to do.” His eyes shone with happiness. “And he still makes time for me,” he continued. “Why, we probably still fuck at least four times a day. You should see Randy’s orgasm face, it’s the cutest thing eve-"

“I’m sure it is,” Scott said hastily. “But um, he probably wouldn’t want you telling everybody about it. It’s so . . . intimate, and all.” He breathed an inward sigh of relief when Gale agreed and pleasantly changed the subject to why kittens were better than bunnies. Scott had never been so happy to see the lights begin to dim in the auditorium, a sign that the play was about to start, and (hopefully) that Gale would shut the fuck up.

The production was decent - it was low-budget, but well put-together, and the actors and stage crew alike really knew their stuff. This was especially true for Randy, who prowled and scowled with alarming realism as the play’s title character. “That’s my baby,” Gale whispered proudly to nobody in particular.

“Hey, isn’t that Fab?” Hal asked at one point, craning his neck to peer at the face of the actor sitting in the barber’s chair waiting for a shave. Sure enough, Fabrizzo Filippo sat in the prop chair, watching Sweeney-Randy lather his face in shaving cream. 

"Um, Hal, didn't you, like . . . die?" Michelle asked suddenly; everyone shifted uncomfortably in their seats. 

"I did," Hal finally chirped cheerfully, and then quipped, "but I got better!" 

“It *is* Fab!” Thea giggled to break the second awkward pause of the night. She, too, squinted so as to get a better look. “He doesn’t even have anything to shave off anymore, though,” she laughed. Sure enough, Fab’s soul patch, probably more of a trademark of his QaF character, Ethan Gold, than his violin, was no longer part of his face. 

“He must have been suffering from an Off-Season Identity Crisis,” Michelle whispered, nodding at Fab sympathetically; everyone agreed, except for Gale, whose beady eyes were raptly focused on Randy.

On stage, Randy began methodically scraping the razor blade over Fab’s lathered face. Earlier, Fab had casually picked it up backstage. “Wow, that’s really kind of . . . sharp,” he said, laughing nervously. Randy had just given him a Look and turned back to his copy of Herman Melville’s “Billy Budd”; the title character was almost as much of a dumb-ass as Gale, he decided. Almost.

"And are you beautiful and pale, with yellow hair like her?" Randy sang boldly, making a few more lengthy swipes with the razor across Fab's face. The dark-haired actor gulped; he never quite knew what he'd done to get on Randy's "bad side" (which may have been an inaccurate term, since it implied that there was a "good side" that somebody could potentially be on as well), but ever since the first day of Fab's stint as Ethan Gold, it was clear that Randy was not on "Queer as Folk" to socialize. And the sex scenes! Fab supposed that, since Justin had to be so submissive to Brian when they were intimate, Randy was just taking out his frustration on Fab's character, but when Justin and Ethan got down-and-dirty on-screen, Fab couldn't ever help but feel as if he were the prey and Randy the vulture. He remembered hobbling out to his car and gingerly touching the bruises that "Justin" had left on him in his latest filming of "Justin's fit of passion". 

"And if you're beautiful, what then, with yellow hair like wheat?" Randy continued, his voice deepening and getting louder simultaneously as he sang. It had also taken on a certain vindictive tone, the kind that made the hair on the back of Fab's neck stand on end. "I think we shall not meet again!" Randy boomed; it was the last thing Fab heard before everything went dark.

From the audience, the QaF cast 'ooh'-ed and 'aah'-ed appreciatively as Sweeney Todd cut his victim's throat. "Fab's a great actor," Thea gushed to Michelle. "And the blood looks so realistic!" Michelle nodded in agreement. 

"Oh, he's wonderful," Gale wept happily, blowing his nose into his program just as Randy finished belting out the last lines of the song: "goodbye, Joanna, you're gone, and yet you're mine! I'm fine, Joanna, I'm fine!"

After the show, the cast huddled together, waiting for Randy to finish getting out of costume; he was eventually along, fingers stained red. "Oh, Randy, sugarlips, you were beautiful," Gale exclaimed, gathering the smaller man into a hug before he could be prevented or fended off. Randy just snarled. 

"Do you have everything packed up?" Thea asked once Randy had successfully freed himself from Gale's grasp. Randy nodded; "then how about we all head out for some post-show ice cream? You deserve it." Gale bounced up and down, clapping his hands until Randy begrudgingly agreed. 

As the posse made their way to the parking lot, Peter blinked and looked back. "Hey, where's Fab?" he queried. "We wanted to let him know how fabulous he was tonight, too."

Randy shrugged and licked his lips. "Oh, he'll be along," he said. Irritated that everyone seemed to be looking at him, now, the blond hooked his arm into Gale's and gave them his best attempt at a disarming, Justin-esque "Sunshine smile"; "come on," he said finally. 'd b'd better get to Dairy Queen before it closes." 

 

August.

Randy's stint as Sweeney Todd came and went, and with it, his primary source of non-QaF income. Once again bored out of his mind, and having aroused quantifiable amounts of suspicion when Fab's body had been found backstage, he found himself faced with the possibility that Gale was to be his only company until season five began filming at the end of September. It was a rather terrifying thought.

He did, at least, have *some* company on occasion, in the form of Simon, his current beard. Usually, he stopped by once a month for his check ("fake boyfriend hush money", Randy liked to call it), exchanged a couple of pleasantries with Randy about the weather and his various journalism accolades, and went on his way. Today, however, Gale had gone to the store to purchase all the fixings for an impromptu turkey dinner (on top of being unemployed, Randy once again found himself getting hideously fat), and in a flash of insanity, Randy had asked him if he wanted anything to drink.

"Do you have any herbal tea? That would be splendiferous," Simon gushed. Randy rolled his eyes once his back was turned -- Simon loved to use big words. And while the quirk had originally been something Randy admired, he now found Simon's predilect for lingual masturbation quite disenchanting - or, as he would have put it, "pretty fucking annoying". He suspected it had a lot to do with the extensive periods of time spent with Gale; Simon tried to talk pretty, and Gale could hardly talk at all. Randy wasn't sure which was worse. 

Two hours of Simon pontificating on the changes in "Colors" magazine now that he was in charge, however, and Randy was pretty sure he had an answer. Gale may have been thick as a brick with the interview finesse of a two-year-old who'd just shit himself, but at least *he* was pretty.

It was amusing when Randy's live-in love/house-pest returned "home", juggling three bags of groceries in his arms. "Randy, darling," he cooed, and then stopped and stared at the imposter sitting opposite Randy, in Gale's favourite armchair, no less.

"I'm Simon," the imposter quickly clarified, shooting Gale a nervous but disarming smile. Gale didn't return it.

Randy snorted at the obvious display of jealousy marring Gale's features. "Simon is my beard, Gale," he explained dismissively. "I told him he could stay for a drink after I paid him off this month."

Gale still didn't look pleased, and Simon took this as his cue. "I was just leaving," he said meekly, tugging at his collar. Nodding quickly at Randy, he hurriedly stood and fairly ran to the door. "Thanks, Rand," he bit out, then added, "nice meeting you, Gale," before leaving.

"'Rand'?" Gale enunciated once the door closed. "He calls you 'Rand'? Nobody gets to call you 'Rand', I thought. You told me once that if *I* ever called you that, you'd rip me a new asshole." It was clear that the taller man was very bitter about this allowance, amongst other things.

"So, what the fuck difference does it make?" Randy spat. "It's not as if you're the only person who's ever left the last syllable of somebody's name off before; Christ." Tight-lipped, Gale set about pulling the contents of the bags he'd brought home out; Randy sighed, exasperated.

"Why do you even need a beard?" Gale asked eventually a few minutes later. "Why can't you just tell people that you're with me?"

"I figured you enjoyed deluding everyone into thinking you were straight," Randy shrugged. "And since I have no affiliation with pussy, either first or secondhand, it kind of rules our ... whatever-it-is that we have out."

"I love you, snuggle-bunnykins," Gale insisted, waving a box of stuffing at his aggrieved partner for emphasis. "I don't care what anybody else thinks about that."

Randy didn't know quite how to respond to Gale's latest outpouring of emotion (his normal instinct was to punch him in the face, but he suspected that this might not help matters), so he just stayed silent. 

The subject seemed laid to rest until a few days later, when Gale surprised Randy with an announcement: "lamb-pie, I've been thinking about it, and --"

"You know how to form coherent thoughts?" Randy queried, truly amazed.

"-- and I decided to make a phone call --"

"You know how to use a phone?"

"Goddammit, Randy!" Gale growled, stalking over until he had planted himself quite imposingly in front of Randy's sprawled form lying on the couch. Fairly towering over him (and blocking the TV), Randy had no choice but to look up at Gale. Like the conversation earlier that week, Randy once again found himself without his usual sarcastic retort and simply blinked.

Gale took a breath. "I made us an appointment with a relationship counselor for couple's therapy."

"The fuck? Why?" Randy sputtered, dropping the TV remote he'd been holding none-too-gently.

"Because," Gale began, reciting what sounded suspiciously like a pre-rehearsed speech (the only way Gale could speak in whole sentences): "we don't have equality in our relationship. You call the shots and bring home the money and even cheat on me with other men. I love you, my licentious little apple crumb," he continued, "and that's why I want us to iron these problems out as soon as we can." 

"Again, Randy was speechless; he'd never really considered 1) his relationship with Gale important enough to warrant making allowances and compromises for it, or 2) that Gale had the brains enough to recognize the fact that they were lacking to begin with. Nevermind that Gale rarely stepped outside of his usual pussy-boy persona; begrudgingly, Randy had to admit to himself that he was intrigued.

"What's in it for me?" the pseudo-blond actor finally asked, not wanting to lose control of the situation completely, even if Gale's pushyness made him hard.

"If you go willingly, I'll fix you your favourite meal," Gale proposed. Randy quickly shook his head.

"I've probably already gained about twenty pounds from eating your cooking all summer," Randy insisted. "Anymore and I'll probably blow up. So no dice."

Gale looked to be in deep thought as he considered this. Finally, he smiled, a slow-spreading endeavor that quickly involved alof his facial muscles -- obviously, Gale had a plan. "Come to therapy with me," he said, "and I'll rim your brains out."

Randy struggled to keep his aloof composure. Usually, Gale was his bottom bitch, but occasionally, he let Gale try his hand (well, dick) at dominating when he was feeling especially benevolent (or drunk). And unbeknownst to most people, Randy loved to be rimmed. One could probably assume that the first time he ever had Gale's tongue up his ass, it was just for "Queer as Folk" and all of Randy's heady little sighs and hip gyrations were just acting, but Gale knew the truth. Also, since Randy had proven able enough to kill a man just by shooting lasers out of his eyes (although Hal seemed to have made a startling and mysterious recovery from being cut-up with his own telepathically-controlled-by-Randy samurai swords, so Gale wasn't sure if it counted anymore), Gale had always kept this information on the down-low.

Still, occasionally, he did seem to know just how to one-up his lover, and once he saw the light flush spread across Randy's face at the suggestion, he knew he'd won. "Alright," Randy said wearily, "I'll go. But I don't have to fucking like it." 

Such was the way Randy found himself sitting in the office of Dr. Lillian Britz approximately a week later. Gale sat on his right, hands folded serenely in his lap as he smiled pleasantly at the relationship counselor. "Welcome to my office," Dr. Britz said eventually, flashing the duo a suspiciously bright and very annoying smile. Gale returned it; Randy tried not to gag.

After Dr. Britz had made repetitive mention/allusion to her wall of degrees and awards, she turned back to the couple and clapped her hands lightly. "Now, to begin," she said, "why don't you tell me why you're here today." Cat-eye-framed green orbs settled on the smaller man, smile just as infuriating as ever. "Randy?" she prompted. "You first."

Randy vacillated; he'd assumed that Gale would do most of the talking and he would sit there and drool and think about the better uses he could find for his lover's mouth. "Well," he finally said, "I'm here because Gale and I have a commitment." It hurt to spit the words out, but judging by the flush of pleasure on the darker-haired man's face, Randy smugly knew he'd said the right thing. He could almost feel that rim job, now. 

"And what kind of commitment would that be?" Dr. Britz pressed. Randy scowled; this bitch just didn't know how to leave well enough alone.

"Randy and I are in love," Gale murmured softly, hands still clasped in his lap. "He's my scrumptious little streudal." 

"And you're a fucking nitwit, Gale," Randy spat, infuriated to see Dr. Britz smirk at Gale's ridiculous pet names. "Look, Doc, the real reason we're here is because Gale's a lot prettier when he's down on his knees. That's our only commitment." 

"But Randybear, what about our beautiful love? What about all the happy times we've shared?" Gale protested.

"What planet did you just fall off of?" Randy screeched, exasperated.

Dr. Britz, for her part, was scribbling frantically on a clipboard. "Looks like we have our work cut out for us, boys," she finally cut in. On her sheet, next to "initial diagnosis", she simply wrote, "screwed without lube". 

For the next hour or so, Dr. Britz employed numerous techniques to get Gale and Randy on equal footing, and also to finish up the session so she could get paid. Free association did not seem to help, since Randy would cut in on Gale's sphiels and invalidate what he was saying, and Gale was prone to bursting into tears whenever Randy verbalized his thoughts. Finally, Dr. Britz walked over to her cabinet and pulled out two styrofoam bats, handing one to each of her clients. "I'd like you two to list off your personal goals for your relationship," she explained.

"And you want us to hit each other?" Randy asked incredulously.

Dr. Britz nodded. "Sometimes, it helps to punctuate your points by having something physical to channel your emotions into," she said.

Randy's eyes gleamed. "FOr once, Doc, I think you're onto something." He took aim and swung, hitting Gale squarely in the temple with the harmless foam toy. Schwack. "I want you to stop acting like a complete pussy," he cackled.

Gale wound up and tapped Randy in the side of the head as well. Schwack. "Well, I want *you* to stop bringing beards into our home," he growled.

"I want you to find something to do besides cook and clean all day," Randy continued, beaning Gale again with the flourescent pink bat. Schwack.

"I want you to stop complaining about the food I slave over for you all day," Gale yelled. Schwack.

"I want you to stop expecting me to play with your nipples everytime we fuck," Randy screeched, really getting into this now. Schwack.

"I want you to stop falling asleep right after you pull out of me -- a little cuddling wouldn't hurt, you know," Gale retorted, schwack-ing Randy twice for emphasis. 

"Uh, boys --" Dr. Britz said, but they ignored her.

"Stop pissing on the toilet seat." Schwack.

"Stop pretending you don't know where my Zoobooks magazines are; I know you trash them as soon as they come in the mail." Schwack.

"Boys ..."

Schwack. " ... stop, uh ... I don't know what that was for, but I'll think of something."

Neither Gale nor Randy noticed when Dr. Britz stormed out of her own office.

A week later, Randy received a bill for the session, as well as a letter explaining why, after the initial consultation, Dr. Britz did not feel it was "within her jurisdiction to provide treatment." "In other words, we're too fucked up, even by a relationship counselor's standards," Randy snickered.

"It's alright, I guess," Gale said melodramatically. Again, he began prattling off a pre-rehearsed diatribe: "I mean, we may be dysfunctional, and you may pay other people to pretend that they're your significant other so the press will leave you alone, and okay, perhaps we don't communicate in any way that a normal person could understand ... but I love you, Randykins," Gale insisted. Then as an afterthought, "and the sex is really good."

Randy smiled despite himself. "Yeah," he agreed. "It is." He paused. "Hey, speaking of sex, we had an agreement, remember? My cooperation in exchange for a rim job." He crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm still waiting for you to uphold your end of the bargain."

Gale grinned and licked his lips. "Your end is going to be the thing that's needing to be held up," he clarified. Moments later, he had a naked Randy sprawled across his lap, wiggling as Gale made good on his word. "C'mon, baby," he cried passionately, bringing the styrofoam bat down across the blond's ass again. After Dr. Britz had left, Randy, being rather fond of the toys, had assisted Gale in plundering them from the relationship counselor for their own personal use. 

"Tell me, bitch," Gale ordered, schwack-ing Randy's behind over and over. "Tell Dr. Gale what you're feeling." Then he leaned down and stuck his tongue in his partner's asscrack.

"Thgiwahgiohawyioawghowafew", Randy replied. 

September.

The phone rang on a listless Sunday afternoon, and Gale rushed to pick it up, beating Randy by a landslide, who merely glanced up from his J.T. Leroy novel, raised an eyebrow, and went back to his book. "Harrison-Harold residence," Gale cooed into the receiver, and Randy fought the urge to strangle him. 

"Oh, hello, Mrs. Harrison!" Gale crooned, and Randy reluctantly perked up; he realized, with a flash of guilt, that he hadn't kept in touch with his family all summer, and that she had every right to ream him for it. "Yes, he is, would you like to speak with hi- oh. Oh! Oh, that's so wonderful!"

"What are you orgasming about now?" Randy asked, but Gale waved a hand to shush him. When he hung up a few minutes later with a gigantic smile on his face, not once having even offered the phone to the other man, Randy blinked in quickly growing horror. "What did you do?"

Gale grinned broadly. "Your mother invited us over for dinner at your parents' house; this time, one week from now," he explained. 

"We?" Randy coughed, irritated. "How does she even know who you are?"

"Oh, she watches the show, silly," Gale laughed. He crossed the room and plopped down on the couch opposite Randy, grabbing the other man's socked foot and digging his fingers into it; Randy bit back a groan, despite himself -- he loved to have his feet rubbed. "Besides," Gale continued, knowing that Randy was easier to deal with when he was being pleasured, "we've been in touch electronically since June." 

"You ... you've been e-mailing my mother this entire time?" Randy said, suddenly feeling faint. He clapped his hand to his forehead and groaned weakly, only imagining the things that had traversed the distance from New York to Georgia via an Internet connection. Gale probably knew all about Randy's adoration of celery sticks with peanut butter and little raisin "ants", or the fact that he used to sleep with a teddy bear named Butch, and the things Gale might have let slip to his birth-giver ... he shuddered visibly. This wasn't good. 

"You left your e-mail console open one day," Gale explained; Randy tried to tune it out, concentrating instead on the methodic massaging of his feet. Rub, rub, rub. He managed to turn most of Gale's words into white noise, but was jolted painfully back to reality when the older man began playing "this little piggy" with his toes. "Your mom sounds very nice, honey," Gale continued, having sent the last little piggy 'whee, whee, whee-ing' all the way home. "I'm looking forward to meeting her."

Randy grimaced; he was afraid Gale would say that - it'd make it much harder to convince him that he didn't really want to keep the appointment. Mentally, he switched to Plan B; "say, aren't you allergic to peaches?" he queried, disappointed when his impromptu foot massage was over.

"No, what gave you that idea?" Gale asked, brow furrowed in confusion. Randy sighed; obviously, Georgia's affiliation with the fruit wasn't going to be a force in keeping Gale Harold out of it, either. He was really going to have to pull out all the stops this time.

"You know, Gale," Randy said in his I-am-being-very-serious voice. "Since you're from L.A., and because we've only been together in Toronto and New York and all, you can't possibly know this, but ... there are some things about Georgia concerning, you know, gay people that you might not know about."

"What do you mean, pookykins?" Gale asked, eyes wide with curiosity. Randy mentally patted himself on the back for effectively getting the other man's attention. Well, the third time was a charm, after all.

"Look," Randy said conspiratorially, dropping his voice an octave or so for dramatic effect, "Georgia's not as progressive as most of the places you've lived. They've got these laws, Gale; you can basically get in trouble for doing anything, you know, gay, while you're there." 

"W-what sort of ... anything?" Gale queried.

"Sodomy laws, Gale," Randy stated flatly, dropping all pretense of breaking the news to Gale gently. In actuality, he had no idea if Georgia still had issues with anal sex ... so he was pretty sure that Gale wouldn't, either. "If you stick your dick up somebody's ass, or have them stick it up yours, and you're caught by the right people, you get fined and sent to prison. And then they even get in trouble for butt-fucking there." He realized how far-fetched that last statement was, but judging from the horrified expression now marring Gale's features, he prided himself for a job well done.

"Well," Gale said after a lengthy pause; Randy could hardly contain his glee at the anticipation of what Gale was about to say. "I guess, given the circumstances, we should just ... make sure to sleep in separate rooms for the weekend." 

And just like that, Randy's hopes fizzled. 

Throughout the week, Randy employed every tactic he could think of to sweet-talk Gale into forgetting about their little dinner date. He blew him underneath the table at the Italian restaurant that Gale loved (which Randy sprung for the bill for), fucked him in the shower after suffering through repetitive viewings of "Sense & Sensibility", Gale's favourite film, and even acquiesced to some unadulterated cuddling. But aside from being a pliable and willing partner, Gale remained stogidly adamant about their trip to Georgia. By the time Thursday had rolled around, the older man had planned out the entire driving route; on Friday, he shopped for munchies and spent most of the afternoon cleaning the house and painstakingly putting together a cake to serve as a housewarming gift for when they arrived. 

By Saturday morning, Randy had fairly given up on trying to convince Gale to stay home. He attempted to feign sick, doing a fairly convincing job when he managed to ralph up the poached egg Gale served him for breakfast, but the other man had simply handed him the bottle of Pepto Bismal and carried him out to Randy's brown clunker car that would serve as their means of transportation. Figuring that car sickness would not persuade Gale to turn back around, either, Randy curled over on his side and lulled himself to sleep, the sound of Gale belting out "Love Shack" ringing in his ears.

Thirteen hours, six rest stops, and a quick hand-job that Randy insisted upon later, and the duo was turning up the long winding driveway of Randy's parents' house. "Pun'kin!" Randy's mother called as she bustled out to greet them; five minutes later, both sets of Randy's cheeks were sore, and he'd developed a twitch in his right eye. Gale, too, had lipstick stains on his cheek, but unlike Randy, he didn't seem to mind terribly. Mrs. Harrison had been quite taken with the cake, too, and quickly ushered the boys inside, wanting to "give Gale the official tour" as soon as possible.

"Oh, we're just so happy that you made it all safe and sound-like," Randy's mom gushed as they wound their way back downstairs; Gale, having taken Randy's sodomy warning seriously, had made a point to request separate rooms -- he'd be staying in the actual guest room while Randy crashed in his childhood one. Gale had felt it only right, even though he'd been quite taken with Randy's old race car bed. "It took an awfully long time, though, didn't it?" Mrs. Harrison went on, patting Gale on the head maternally as he sat down at the table in the dining room. 

"We had to make a few rest stops along the way, mother," Randy explained curtly, grabbing a peach out of the fruit bowl on the nearby counter and taking a large bite. 

"Ah, yes, I should have guessed," his mother replied, laughing cheerfully. She pointed at Randy and winked conspiratorially at Gale. "Randy always has had a bladder the size of a pinto bean." Randy very nearly choked on the bite of fruit in his mouth, and again when Gale jovially agreed.

Dinner was a hearty Southern affair, complete with a full-course meal and three or four different choices for dessert. "You must be feeding our baby well, Gale," Mrs. Harrison gushed as Gale helped himself to seconds on the mashed potatoes. "Usually when he comes home, he's skinny as a rail. I think the only thing he subsists on is tonic water." She pinched Randy's cheek for the millionth time and he snapped, "Mom, you're embarrassing me."

"Well, you know what they say on the show," Gale replied dorkily. "I make it a point to see that Randy eats at least some of his protein off of a plate." Randy's parents laughed at this like they hadn't heard a good joke in ages. Randy contemplated tossing himself out the large bay windows in the living room, and then realized that the fall wouldn't be nearly enough to kill him. It was a good thing they were leaving tomorrow evening. 

That night, however, lying in a now-cramped car-shaped bed and trying to masturbate without moving around too much so that the bed gave off any tell-tale squeaks, Randy realized how long it had been since he hadn't shared his bed with another warm body. He figured he could still get by without it, but begrudgingly, he admitted to himself that he enjoyed the all-access pass he had to Gale's ass. And his cock. And his talented fingers ... 

Hopping out of bed, Randy decided to chance a trip across the hall to Gale's room. He grabbed his half-full water glass on the pretense of refilling his drink, only to find the taller man, clad in an ill-fitting bathrobe that belonged to Randy's much stockier father, already standing at the water cooler. His hair was mussed and his eyes sleepy; Randy had never been hornier. 

"Randy, baby," Gale half-whispered in recognition. "Are you thirsty, too?" He reached for Randy's glass to fill it, but Randy set it down on the counter, pulled Gale's cup out of his fingers as well, and yanked on the other man's bathrobe ties hard. "Aaah, Randy," Gale said, flustered. He dug his heels into the carpet, but the added traction did little to impede Randy's progress; his dick was practically pulling them back towards the guest room. "B-but ... what about the s-sodomy laws? The being a-arrested and thrown in j-jail?" Gale cried as Randy pushed him inside. 

The smaller man's eyes glinted dangerously. "It was pretty much bullshit," he admitted, and then, to stop Gale from thinking about it too much, "but wait here; I've got a pair of fake handcuffs in my room. We can still play sodomy laws." He spun on his heel without another word, and Gale hurriedly stripped out of the robe. 

The next morning and subsequent afternoon was spent trying to cram Gale full of as many humiliating family photos and home movies of Randy as possible. Randy's parents had bookcases full of their son's achievements, acting accolades and "firsts", and they wanted to make sure Gale knew them like the back of his hand. Randy had expected his mother to dote on Gale, which was infuriating enough, but by the time lunch rolled around, his father had take cal calling the other man "Sport". This worried him greatly.

"So, Sport," Mr. Harrison said, digging into his potato salad with vigor. "When are you and Randy gettin' hitched?" Randy spat out his mouthful of peach cobbler. 

"Oh, Randy does not like to talk about marriage much," Gale fretted, clasping his hands politely in front of him. "But ... maybe someday," he said wistfully. Randy wondered how far he could get if he killed everyone else in the house now and headed to Mexico. 

By the time they were ready to head back to New York, Gale could recite Randy's life story and prattle off his resume from memory. Mr. Harrison shook his hand and Mrs. Harrison kissed him on the cheek the same way that she did Randy, and armed with enough potato salad to feed a small army, the two headed out to Randy's little beater car to start the journey home. "I'm driving," Randy hissed, snatching the keys from his lover. 

"But pun'kin, all those pills that you took when you complained about a headache," Gale insisted, holding up his hands in vague protection as Randy gave him a Look. "I, what if you fall asleep at the whe -- okay, okay, here," he gasped when Randy reached down without warning and grabbed his balls through his pants. Whimpering, Gale wiggled in the passenger seat as Randy peeled out of the driveway, tires screeching loudly. From the doorway, his parents waved. "Call us so we know you got in safely!" his mother called, but Randy was already long gone.

A few days later and home once again, Randy and Gale both received identical letters from Cowlip; Gale's had, impressively, been forwarded from his now-defunct California address, and they had arrived on the same day. Randy glared at his sullenly and tossed it on the counter, but Gale excitedly tore his open and began reading aloud: 

"Dear 'Folks':

We're pleased to be welcoming you all back for the filming of the fifth (and final!) season of QaF: US, scheduled to begin October 1st. If the last fourteen episodes were any indication, we're trying to polish off our very successful run by going out with a 'bang',and not just in typical Brian Kinney fashion, either. As such, here are a few of the plot points you can expect to see in our concluding season:

1\. Justin will get pregnant; Randy, we're thinking that you should grow your hair out progressively for about eight months to really cinch that "little mother" look.

2\. Brian will lose his dick in a horrible copy machine accident. But never fear, true love will prevail, and he'll have a nice glow-in-the-dark prosthetic. 

3\. Melanie's pre-existing spawn will turn out to be a half-alien child, which, needless to say, raises the issue of infidelity once again between her and Lindsey (and also brings into question some things about Michael). Meanwhile, Gus is revealed to have Down's Syndrome, which explains why he just kind of sits there when he's on-screen.

4\. The producers of the "Rage" movie take some creative liberties and make the faggy superhero into a straight accountant named Wilbur. Justin wants to sue, but he's so worried about Brian's dicklessness that it's left up to Michael to take care of it -- which means it goes straight to Hell.

5\. Debbie goes through menopause; Detective Horvath takes up heavy gambling.

6\. Ethan appears briefly -- ("I guess Fab got better, too," Gale noted aloud) to show off his new girlfriend to Justin, who could give a shit less.

7\. Ted and Emmett move to Hawaii and get married, tired of all the angst and listless wandering that they did in season four, but not before making plenty of gratuitous jokes about the state of Brian's penis. Meanwhile, Blake hooks up with Todd and they have a commitment ceremony in the backroom of Babylon. 

8\. Season/series finale: Hunter becomes valedictorian of his high school and then dies in a car crash. Everyone mourns, even Justin, who really fucking hates him. And then he and Brian have comfort sex, and the credits roll. 

Finally, please be advised that, as with all seasons, the consumption of food or liquid that is not a) semen or b) water for the course of the filming is severely frowned upon. Remember, you're going to be naked for the entire gay male and straight women population of North America that subscribes to Showtime -- nothing tastes as good as being thin feels!

Best regards,

\-- Cowlip"

"Well, sounds like a fun time ahead," Gale said when he'd finished. "Don't you think so, Randy-lumpkins?" He looked around. "Randy? Snuggle-bunny?" 

The sound of retching was the smaller man's only response.


End file.
